Of Bullet Fragments and Misunderstandings
by Dr. SecretAgentMan
Summary: It's all a misunderstanding, really. There's a totally valid reason for why he's bleeding out all over the bathroom floor.. Teen!Chester Rated T for blood.


**Disclaimer****: **I do not own Supernatural or any characters associated with it.

**Warning: **Mentions of suicidal thoughts but... well... The title says it all.

Teen!Chester with thirteen year-old Sam and seventeen year-old Dean. Lots of whump cuz we all know thats all I'm good for.

This is for a friend o' mine: Music-is-endless. She's a budday of awsomeness plus a Supernatural addict so... Yah know! Hope she enjoys this!

Oh and btw, Hedgeclippers. Just for you, MiE! :)

XXXXXXX

It was all a misunderstanding really.

It was the third time he had been allowed on a hunt. Granted, it was low-key, the kind he knew Dad and Dean could do in their sleep, but it had been a hunt never-the-less, and for thirteen year-old Sam Winchester, that was enough.

They had gone after a Danville local legend, a witch that had recently become a reality none of the town wished to remember. Windows shattered, doors ripped from their hinges, and on more than one occasion, dogs had gone missing from the neighborhood yards only to reappear miles away, brutally mutilated beyond belief.

The locals, of course, had been shocked by this turn of events, and found themselves becoming more and more anxious each passing day. Anxiety soon turned to fear, and fear to terror as the attacks refused to stop, instead becoming more and more deadly.

It was at the climax of these events when the Winchester family rolled into town. News spread fast, as it always did in their line of work, and this oddity was not above the gossiping norm. It was beyond obvious, to the hunters at least, that what was plaguing Danville was nothing more than the common wrath, who was likely to wear itself out over time, as many of the enraged spirits did. As far as the hunting community was concerned, it was the smallest of thorns in a bushel full of serkets, and frankly, they were all just as ready to watch as Darville sink to its knees.

Everybody except for Sam.

Danville was perfect. Small, secluded, and most importantly without risk of hunter intrusion, it was a perfect place for Sam to test out his hunting skills. He had already been hunting twice, but he had mostly run surveillance, staying on the sidelines as Dean and his Dad did all the work. Here there was no need for Dean to be the protective big brother and Dad the paranoid father.

There was nothing that could go wrong, at least that's what he thought when he spent three hours begging them to take one small, tiny, tinee-weeny detour. Everything would be fine; oh, how wrong he was.

The Sheriff hadn't even been at fault either, he thought as he stuck the tweezers into his skin. His wrist was a bloody mass of torn flesh and bits of his jacket that had cemented themselves to his skin when the bullet hit him, or rather, when the fragments of the bullet hit him.

Sam figured that he and the wall were even for that. When his poor timed exorcism had lead to a run in with the cops, it had been the cracked and broken wall that had been the perfect sanctuary for him to duck behind; it was also the thing the bullet hit, splintering it into pieces- two of which had imbedded themselves into Sam's arm.

He hadn't said a thing to Dean though, and he figured that was his mistake. In the state of mind he was in at the time, all he could think was how disappointed he would be, and how he would never be allowed on another hunt. There was nothing more Sam wanted than to be with his father and brother, and hunting was an obvious part of their lives. If he had to suck it up and nurse a few injuries on his own then so be it. He would be fine; he's always been in the past.

Except it had never been this bad. One fragment he found just fine, but the other had embedded itself precariously close to the large vein pulsing along his wrist, and if there was one thing Sam didn't want to do, it was bleed out all over the motel bathroom's moldy tile. So he had gritted his teeth and doused the wound in whiskey, numbing the pain long enough to dig around the mess with the least deadly looking pair of tweezers he could find in his fathers exorcism set. Snatching the first aid kit would set off obvious alarms, and he really wasn't in the mood for one of Dean's protective rants.

Speaking of which, that was someone he probably should have been looking out for. Sam knew that going to the diner for pie -of all things- shouldn't have taken as long as it did, but as of this moment he was a bit preoccupied with not screaming out with the heightening pain. Each jostle of the tweezers sent agony spiraling up his arm; each flick of the wrist enough to make his stomach churn. It probably didn't help that his hands were shaking so much that the tweezers were slashing new marks across his bloodied skin, forming a Picaso of lashes that danced across his arm.

Sam was a fighter; he may not have been born one, but he had been raised one, and lived with two people who were more than ready to teach him the ropes. Something as stupid as a bullet wouldn't stop his family, so it sure as _hell_ wasn't going to stop him.

He trust the tweezers into his skin, hard and swift and just as Dean burst through the door.

There was a split second of tense silence, Sam's eyes as wide as the deer (or was it the moose) Dean assured he was. Dean stayed fixed on the shaking tweezers, forest green eyes startled and scared and angry and so many other emotions that Sam was too tired to place. And then Dean is on him, wrenching the tweezers away as if it was a knife and...

Wrist. Knife. Blood.

Oh.

_Oh._

Suddenly Dean's reaction makes a whole hell of a lot more sense. Nothing he says seems to get through to his brother though, no matter how hard he's trying to explain that he's really not suicidal, and -_God damn it_- Dean's grip is tight enough to leave bruises and it _hurts_.

"Sammy." Dean breaths and Sam has to stifle a sob.

Dean still must have heard it though because he jerks up from his probing, expression softening, as he pulls Sam close, forcing the teen's face into the crook of his neck. His free hand glides along Sam's hair even as he wraps one of the few non-bloodied around the younger's wrist, staunching the flow of blood from the wound.

"God Sam. Why would you _ever_.." Dean's voice chokes, before a second "Sammy" is emitted, low and deep and nestled in Sam's hair.

Tell-tale wetness appears there, and Sam feels the words stick in his throat, replaced instead by another quiet sob and his good hand tightening around his brother.

He can explain later, when emotions aren't running as high, and he isn't shaking with silent sobs. For now, he's going to let Dean fuss over him and worry; it may be selfish, but as Dean tucks him in and lays down next to him, hand curving around the nape of his neck, he figures the repercussions will come later.

Somehow he knows that these bullet fragments and misunderstandings will stay with him for life.

XXXXXXX

Anyway, hope you like it my dear!

To everyone else, please R&R. It helps alot! :D

Love you all dearly, and hope you enjoyed your Teen!Chester.


End file.
